


Alone Wolf

by laEsmeralda



Category: Lost Girl, White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laEsmeralda/pseuds/laEsmeralda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dyson accidentally arrives in New York City. Neal graciously plays host.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> The Lost Girl World: Many Old-World fae, both light (summer) and dark (winter) alignments, emigrated to cities in the New World. The Ash and the Morrigan settled their people in a major Canadian city (probably Toronto) and their successors manage a tenuous Peace. Dyson, a centuries-old shape-shifter with a wolf totem, works undercover as a human detective, reporting back to the Ash. He has fallen in love with a succubus, Bo, who grew up outside the clans and only recently discovered what she is. Her bisexuality and constitutional inability to be monogamous are a challenge for Dyson, and he often finds himself alone.

Muted voices and dim lights began to penetrate the headache and the funk of the reused crate. The drugging had to have been extraordinary, or else the human who had taken him out of consciousness had fae help. Dyson groaned, trying to keep quiet. His sense of smell, like his other senses, seemed far away and quiet. Except for thirst. That was crying out loudly.

He didn’t know where he was or how long he had been out. His aching bladder and the dryness of his trousers suggested that it hadn’t been more than five hours. But five hours on a plane had a far reach. Inwardly, he cursed himself for lack of vigilance. Drugged in human form, he hadn’t been able to travel curled up as a wolf.

A blade of light struck into the crate, and the voices grew louder. 

“Isn’t it unusual to see a shipment of men? Canadians no less.” The man’s voice had a smooth, calm quality with an edge of inquisitiveness that Dyson instantly liked. It had the timbre of someone his age.

“Slavers come in as much variety as the rest of us, and drugs make it just as easy to overpower a man as a woman.” That voice belonged to an older man with an alpha quality. “We were just in time to prevent the transfer.”

Dyson suddenly sneezed from the dust.

“Hello, in there, we’re FBI and we’re getting you out.” That, from the younger fellow. There came a creaking noise and then a splintering. “Wow, Peter, this crate is different.”

“Steel bands. I'll get the bolt cutters.”

Dyson tried to stretch but the crate didn’t allow him to do more than almost sit up. His lack of shirt had left him chafed against the raw planks and dirty from whatever poor soul had occupied the crate coming into Toronto. He felt around various bits, hoping that general bruising was the only result of his abrupt captivity. He vaguely remembered hands gripping his thighs hard. Some freaks liked to take an unconscious fae, to pretend they had sexual power over the helpless gifted. To his vast relief, he could detect no such violation. They had just been hard on him in the subduing and loading process. He grinned, remembering that he had been hard on _them_.

The noise of the two agents breaking into his crate made him wrap his arms around his aching head. But at last, cooler air and uncomfortable amounts of light poured in, and he was being helped to stand. He couldn’t see effectively yet.

“Thanks,” he gritted out through dry lips. “Dyson Thornwood, homicide detective with the Toronto Police. If you’d indulge me with a bathroom and a drink of water, I think I can help you piece this together.” 

“Buddy, you look like you need more than a glass of water,” the older agent rumbled. “I’m Agent Burke and this is Neal Caffrey.” He gestured outside with a thumb. “Paramedics are working on the other folks.”

Dyson shook his head. He hoped that any other unfortunate fae had managed to slip away before tests could be run. “Tox screen will show something heavy-duty, but I’m okay. Except that I’ll be pissing in a corner in a minute—”

“I’ll take him,” the younger guy said to the elder. “Sir, you’re in a air cargo terminal. Is it okay if I take your elbow? You look pretty shaky.”

“It’s Dyson, not _sir_ ” he replied, leaning on the man as his feet tortured him, burning in vengeance for an extended lack of full circulation. By the time they reached the washroom, he was walking on his own, and the agent had the good grace to wait outside. 

When Dyson emerged, having rinsed at the sink and paper toweled away at least some of the crate filth, he could actually look at, and surreptitiously scent, the agent—Caffrey—who silently offered a water bottle. There was something strongly attractive about him, almost delicious from the smell standpoint. He couldn’t swear that Caffrey had fae blood, but he suspected it. The man held himself like the luck fae do, easy, self-assured on the outside, a little bit furtive if you looked closely. Or, just an unusual human. A mystery for later. After food. With food, he could heal. 

Dyson polished off the water in five gulps and cleared his throat. “Agent, I’d like to make a call, get my ID and such in the works.” The ever-so-slight downcast to the man’s eyes in response, a little deference in his shoulders, felt just right to Dyson. 

“I’m a consultant, not an agent. But yeah.” Caffrey pulled out his phone and handed it over. “And I’d put food right after that on the agenda. You look like you could use a steak. Peter, c’mere a second.” Caffrey moved away to confer. 

Dyson wondered if the reference to steak was knowing, or just a red-meat-guy response to obvious hunger. He called Hale and explained. Getting ID, money, whatever he needed wouldn’t be a problem. Meeting up with the courier might be. He attempted to look casual and kept his voice low. “I don’t know yet where I’ll be. I’ll try to stick with the owner of this phone, so you can locate me that way. I think he might be one of us but I'm not sure whether _he_ knows.” He rang off. Even as the Ash, Hale was low-drama and competent. 

The muzziness was wearing off, and hunger began to rage at him. He walked over to stand a polite distance from Burke and Caffrey, folding his arms, waiting. Dyson focused on studying the cavernous room, the sounds out of doors, the scents, the two men. It was a way to not focus on himself. 

He could sense something between them, a bond of loyalty, although Burke was plainly human. Caffrey was deferential, as he had been with him, but warmer, wanting in some way. Burke was mostly listening, asking a question here and there. He looked puzzled. Finally, Burke’s eyes flicked over to Dyson. Caffrey turned. He smiled and then went to one of the nearby sedans and rifled in the back seat.

“Neal here has offered to keep you at his place until we can situate you.” Burke took a friendly, yet protective tone, a sub-aural growl resonated underneath. Territory?

Dyson quirked a smile. “Keeping a witness close. I approve.”

Burke regarded him, amused. “I’ll choose to think you’re an especially sharp cop, and not that we’re transparent. That said, I don’t think you’ll mind Neal’s hospitality.” 

That last bit sounded very warmly said. Dyson wondered if Burke was aware of it. It seemed not. “I’d be grateful. It’ll take a few hours for my people to work something out and meanwhile, I’d love to clean up.”

Caffrey returned and proffered a t-shirt. “It’s clean.”

“I’m not,” Dyson replied, apologetically.

“No worries. Listen, are you… hurt?” Caffrey asked, softly. Behind him, Burke looked startled, and then regretful, as though he should have thought of it himself.

“It was a bag-and-tag. They were in a hurry. I can’t speak for the others, though.” He pulled the shirt over his head. Not one to feel self-conscious about nakedness, he knew humans did. And these wore suits to break open crates.

“I’ll drop you both at your place,” Burke said to Caffrey.

Caffrey shrugged and smiled winsomely at Dyson, “I don’t drive in New York.”

There was more to the story. Dyson wasn’t one to pry.  
*******

The steam shower was beyond heaven. He had suffered the wait to eat. In the car, Caffrey ordered food to be delivered and even in desperation, Dyson was too polite to ask to stop for a burger.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. “Food’s here.”

Dyson immediately cut the water.

“I threw your jeans in the washer. There’s fresh clothing outside the door. Might be a little short. Sorry.”

Smiling, Dyson toweled off. “I’m grateful.” He cracked the door and scooped up the clothing. Caffrey was gone though his scent lingered. Dyson had to raise a brow that there were even undershorts still in the package—and the right size. The other clothing felt good, warm and broken in, infused with that delicious smell and—thankfully—not overlaid with scented laundry products. If only humans knew how much they overloaded the world with artificial scents.

Other tantalizing smells wafted in through the cracked door. Meat. He steeled himself, got the wolf under control, checked his eyes in the mirror, and stepped out. 

Caffrey finished pouring water and unstoppered something intriguingly dark over a short glass. “Please, dig in.” 

Dyson did, heroically holding back from ravening. He glanced at the clock. It was midafternoon. No wonder. He’d entered the crate just after leaving the station—hadn’t made it to a meal. The rare steak and greens rapidly vanished, leaving him with a more omnivorous appetite. He buttered a potato and downed half in one bite. Within a few minutes, he could feel his cuts and abrasions closing with a plaguing itch. Luckily, Caffrey was standing looking out at the skyline. Dyson sipped at the burning drink. “Thanks. I can pay you back.”

A sharp profile turned toward him with a smile. “We put it on Peter’s office card.”

“I don’t imagine all the rest are being treated so fine,” Dyson replied.

“Actually, they’re being put up at a decent hotel. And fed. But I didn’t like the idea of you having to do that.” He turned around, silhouetted by the gray day behind. “Not sure why, exactly.”

Dyson suspected a fae affinity. But if Caffrey was, and knew, it seemed he would have said something by now. “Tuath Dé,” Dyson replied. 

“That’s beautiful. It sounds… Celtic or something.”

“Good ear. Do you know what it means?” Again, Dyson felt something in the quality of Caffrey’s voice, something soothing.

Caffrey shrugged. Dyson couldn’t read any deception in his body language. 

“Tribe of the gods. In Gaelic. Never mind.” He took his plate to the sink and turned to look around. “You have a gorgeous place, but—no offense—smallish. I’m not in the habit of taking a host's bed. I should be hearing from my people soon.”

“It’s no trouble. Peter asked me to keep you safe while you’re in New York, and safe I’ll keep you.”

Dyson smiled. “This isn’t exactly a safe house. Not that I really need one.”

“You’d be surprised how secure this majestic old building is. Listen, I have to go out for a bit. June—my patron saint and landlord—she’ll come up in a bit and introduce herself. You can have anything you need delivered here. And there’s a second bed in here—bet you almost anything you’d care to wager that you can’t find it before I get back.” Caffrey grinned and donned his hat with a flourish.

It was an affectation, but a rakish one that Dyson felt in his groin. Which surprised him. “You’re on.”

“Two rules—don’t break anything, and don’t ask June.”

“Stakes?”

“Hm. Let’s wager a future favor. Of unknown specificity. Nothing harmful, nothing illegal.”

Bemusingly, unwittingly, nearly fae-proofed. Not that Dyson was the type to take advantage. “Done.”  
*******

It took Dyson ten minutes to make all his calls and arrange his deliveries. It took him over an hour to find the second bed. “Ingenious,” he murmured upon triggering it, and went to look for clean sheets, discovering a truly cavernous walk-in closet. “Bed could have been in here,” he breathed. 

Returning with a stack of linens in his arms, he rounded the doorway and abruptly came face-to-face with a stately woman. He set the linens and pillow on the table and bowed. “Mother Weaver,” he said, respectfully.

She sparkled with amusement. “Wolf.”

“Your presence explains a thing or two. I’m Dyson.”

“June. He doesn’t know. You can’t tell him.”

He bristled at the challenge. “That’s presumptuous.”

“I serve the Oak,” she said, gravely, as though that should quell all objections. It did. “He is… protected. His Test is not complete.” She stepped closer and stroked Dyson’s hair and beard like she would a favored pet. He couldn’t help but lean into her hand, pulled by the power and promise. “And he is confused, suppressed. Running through women at an unhealthy pace. Which is why you are here.”

“Me?”

“If not for my interference, you’d be in Qatar right now. I’ll spare you the detailed itinerary." She continued stroking. "He pines for someone he cannot have.”

Dyson knew instantly. “The other agent.”

“Peter Burke dotes on him. He’s a good teacher and protector. Perhaps in another life, he would have been a proper mate for the lad. But not in this one.”

“Perhaps you’re wrong. Burke’s attracted, I’m sure of that.”

She raised an eyebrow as though the information were new. “Perhaps. He is deeply fond. He cherishes Neal. I’ve seen it for myself. But he can’t seem to find a passion of the _body_ for him.” She folded her arms and sighed. “I cannot see the thread, though I’ve hoped for it, believe me.”

“Hoped for a fae to choose a human?” Dyson felt pleasantly surprised to find a Light elder unrepentant in the thought.

June waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Spirits join how they will. But Neal needs to know what he’s never yet experienced. The passion that a strong fae partner can provide. His equal. Then, he can decide how to live his life.”

“I’m not… biddable on this, My Lady,” Dyson said gently.

“Biddable?” June scoffed. “I simply put you in each other’s way. The rest is chemistry or not.” Distantly, a glass pane in a door rattled. “Ah, that’ll be him. You’re dining with me tonight in the formal, at 6:30 p.m. sharp. Neal will bring you down.” She turned on her impeccable Chanel heels and was gone, leaving the door open.

Dyson returned to making the bed, more than a little bemused. His host had to be mighty powerful, or potentially powerful, for the Oak to take any interest in an unaligned, unaware fae. He smoothed out the blanket, suddenly conscious that Neal was quietly standing in the doorway. He pretended his senses weren’t that good. 

“I owe you a favor, then,” came the pleasing voice, not sounding anything but happy about it.

Dyson turned, catching the blue eyes just lifting from where his rear had been. “If it’s any consolation, it took me a good long time.” 

“It’s one of the many curiosities of this apartment.”

“Like the astonishing closet.”

Neal laughed. “June’s husband was quite the clothes horse. In many ways he's been as much my benefactor as she, despite his untimely death when they were young.”

“She seems nice. She cares about you.”

“Caring yes, but don’t let the nice fool you. She’s canny and tough. She knew I was a criminal when she took me in and didn’t lose a step over it.”

“Criminal.”

“I’m Peter’s CI. Formerly inhabiting the shadows of confidence, fraud, and theft. Now reformed.” He tipped his hat.

Dyson regarded him skeptically. “That seems… statistically unlikely.”

“You don’t know Peter. Oh, here.” Neal stepped out in the hallway and retrieved a package, which he promptly handed to Dyson. “This arrived as I did. June signed for it”

It contained his police ID, his passport, a cell phone, cash in both currencies, a credit card, and confirmation of a _flight_. Dyson smiled, magic being a wonderful thing. 

“That was fast,” Neal observed.

“Luckily, flights leave Toronto for New York several times an hour. Say, June invited me to dinner, can I go dressed like this?” His clear sense as Neal looked him over was that his form made a favorable impression, but Neal’s expression remained carefully neutral.

“You look great,” Neal replied, a little rumble in his voice now. He reached out and smoothed a shoulder seam without lingering. “June is old-school. I can lend you a jacket. It’s only weekday dinner, so no tie is required.”

Dyson liked the way Neal’s fingers felt slipping along his shoulder. It made little hairs rise down his body. He did not care for being set on a task, but the Weavers had a sense for these things. In ordinary circumstances, Dyson wouldn’t know that Neal liked men, or at least one man. Even his sense of the two agents being close hadn’t tipped him off to unrequited love. The knowledge that an encounter was at least possible had an effect. 

But he anticipated that the fastest way to distance Neal would be to appear to presume. Dyson reached for his empty glass. “Do you think I could have a bit more of that lovely spirit?” He let his voice slide low, as though he was courting. It was a power of the wolf, a sub-aural vocalization to attract a mate.

The blue eyes startled. “Ah, of course.” Neal paced over to the sideboard. From the way he moved, Dyson inferred that certain areas had responded as intended.  
*******

Dinner turned out to be delightful, regardless of formality. There was liquor and music, fine food and laughter, and candlelight. And a fae cook and butler.

“You have too refined a sense of humor for an ordinary cop,” Neal observed from across the table.

“Who said I was ordinary?” he quipped back.

“Tell me something unusual then.”

“I was a soldier for a long time first. Not very… domesticated, shall we say, lots of blood and whisky, convenient women, and true love only in the form of loyalty.”

“A soldier. That surprises me more.”

Dyson shrugged. “We do many things out of necessity, right? Later, a dear friend encouraged me to interview with the police. He vouched for me. I had to learn to behave or else I’d reflect badly on him, which I couldn’t bear to do.”

Neal swirled his wine, watched it closely. “Yeah, I guess I know a thing or two about that.”

Pausing to sip his whisky, Dyson glanced at June. Her eyes were half-lidded, reading warp and weft far from the dinner table. She gave him a slight nod. He resumed. “I managed well for several years, became an effective cop. And then, I slept with my partner. As it always does, word eventually got out.”

Neal nodded. “It’s one of the reasons NYPD precincts try to discourage women from the ranks. I’m not saying that’s the right way to deal with it, by the way. The FBI takes a different approach.”

“Yes, well, my partner wasn’t a woman.”

Only a little clink of fork against plate gave away Neal’s surprise.

“Most divisions aren’t that enlightened yet. That’s when I transferred to my current post in the 39th.” From there, Dyson went on to talk about a chain of difficult-to-bust gambling houses, which drew June into the conversation. Neal had little choice but to follow.

June proposed after-dinner drinks and cards, declaring that she would retire for her beauty sleep at 9 p.m. They played Bela to 501. She embraced and kissed each of them and swept off to her rooms. 

Neal deftly stowed the cards in their ornate box. He seemed like a man who had questions but couldn't put them into words. 

Dyson saved him the trouble. "This is a huge house. If anything I said makes you uncomfortable—which I'd entirely understand—I'd prefer not to share your quarters tonight." 

That brought Neal's eyes to a quick lock with his. "No… God no, I'm not prejudiced in the least." He fiddled with his glass. "More… curious. This is going to sound terrible, but as a con, I pride myself on sensing what draws people, what their real interests are in life. I didn't read you accurately."

Not hiding a mischievous smile, Dyson replied, "How many truly bi men do you think you've met in your life? We're tougher to read."

Neal unconsciously licked his lips. "Good point." 

"Your partner, for example, I get a vibe but it's highly selective."

Neal looked surprised. "Vibe?"

"Well, he doesn't show any interest toward guys on the street. He reacted to my half-naked state with simple concern, and I'm not being vain when I say that men who like men look at me _differently_. 

Neal cocked his head, but didn't let the question pass his lips.

Dyson debated with himself, but he had come this far. "His manner shifted with you. I think he's attracted to you and doesn't know how to name it."

Tossing back the rest of his drink, Neal evaded his eyes. "I don't think you're right."

"Don't underestimate social pressure. You and I have lived outside all kinds of the lines, through necessity and then by constitution. For someone like him, openness is often not possible. And if he feels responsible for you, that probably holds him back harder." 

In profile, the smooth beauty of Neal's face took on a sharpness that suggested mixed origins. Dyson studied him, the lines of his shoulders, the worry, the accumulation of weights that he pretended not to carry. "I'm sorry, it's not my place to comment like that. I think I should get to sleep, trying day and all." Dyson stood.

"Of course." Moving smoothly to his feet, Neal led him through the house and back up the stairs. Dyson could easily have found his own way, but he didn't protest. Neal was slim and moved with an ease that suggested being in great shape. Dark and beautiful, his favorite type. Thank the gods, the man's eyes weren't brown—Dyson needed no reminders. On the stairs, behind in the dim hallway, Dyson could scent him without being seen, caught the details of his day and now, a mixture of arousal and confusion. 

Unselfconscious, he stripped down for bed, leaving briefs on as a courtesy and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. Neal slipped past him into the bathroom. Dyson settled himself in the guest bed, and without intending to, fell asleep.

He awoke sometime in the middle of the night, a dream of Bo fading, leaving him heartsick. Quietly, he slipped out onto the terrace. The moon was high, the air chilly, but not uncomfortable to his higher temperature. It felt cleansing. 

After a few minutes, he heard Neal stirring. No human would be able to hear that rustling of sheets, the waking breath, so he pretended to be absorbed in the skyline. When Neal touched the doorjamb and paused, Dyson turned. 

"Everything okay?" Neal asked. 

"Yeah. Just unfamiliar. I had an unsettling dream." The silvery light on Neal's face, shoulders, and bare torso made Dyson think of a forest long in his past. Even the sweatpants contributed to a Pan-like effect. 

"All those drugs might not have left your system yet. You're bound to feel off balance." Neal's eyes flicked lower for a fraction of an instant and back to Dyson's face, distracted by the state of undress and trying heroically not to be. "Can I get you anything?" Neal's slightly flustered manner, sleepy and off-guard, proved that he was intrigued—he couldn't project his usual facade. 

"You can come closer," Dyson answered before he could stall himself for a gentler approach. He didn't mean it to sound so provocative, but he couldn't help the tiniest rumble that rode under the words. The wolf was responding to Neal's vulnerability, and Dyson felt a slow pulse of blood start to make him hard. He bit the inside of his cheek to check himself. "I'm sorry, that was really far out of line. I'm not myself." He turned away, bracing his hands on the coping at the top of the balcony wall. 

Bare feet whispered on the stone as Neal came to stand just behind him. "What's going on here? I feel like I can't stay away from you. It's not like me." 

"Chemistry," Dyson said over his shoulder. "Pheromones." True, although not the whole truth. "Acceptance."

A hand spread to its full span along his back, beneath his left shoulder, finger pads clinging to the top of his ink. Neal's intake of breath confirmed that the touch didn't feel ordinary. All the way hard now, Dyson measured his own breaths carefully. 

"I guess you could read _me_ pretty easily," Neal said.

Dyson shook his head. "Little things here and there contradicted by other things here and there. But the way you look at Burke—that's pretty conclusive to someone like me."

A quiet laugh, filled with irony answered him. And then, a sigh. "I managed prison without sex with men. Why am I all of a sudden—"

"—That wouldn't have been sex." Dyson interjected. "And there's nothing sudden about how you feel. Some of us just have to be old enough to stop judging ourselves. Or so in love we can't ignore it." He suddenly felt like an intruder, the Weaver's puppet. This man needed his partner, not a stranger. "Go back to bed," he said, very gently. "It's chilly out here, and I think I could sleep now," he lied.

"I couldn't," Neal replied, a trembling edge to his voice. "I'd rather not go back to bed alone," 

The hand moved down to cradle the small of his back. Dyson turned, now almost nose-to-nose with Neal, tipping his head down to look into his moon-laced eyes. Really, it wasn't any different than picking up a guy at a club, except that the surroundings were nicer and so was the guy. "You sure you want to wing it with someone you barely know?" He asked it sincerely, not as a courtesy. He wanted so badly to lean into the half-embrace and feel Neal's skin against his.

"There's something about you…."

"Besides the fact that I'll go far away tomorrow?" Dyson teased. 

"I trust you," Neal said in wonderment.

Of course, Neal was being drawn by the fae connection, couldn't understand it, felt safe like never before. And he was safe. In that moment, Dyson knew the outcome of the Test. Neal would choose Light. He probably had Burke to thank for tipping the scales of a rough life. Dyson wondered why he was drawn so strongly to those balanced on the cusp, those who resisted choosing alliances. His own loyalty demanded choice.

He cupped Neal's face in both hands. The way those shining eyes slid shut for a moment, Dyson understood that it had been a long time since anyone had touched him with any intimacy. "Okay to kiss you? I don't want to freak you out." He didn't really wait for an answer, since all the body language suggested he should go for it. 

Dyson had a special kiss, everyone remarked on it eventually—some exclaimed immediately, some brought it up shyly in the afterglow. Meeting Neal's lips, he sensed a match and let himself lose a little time. The feel of Neal's naked skin against his chest and belly drove the heat higher, but it was the caress of Neal's mouth that made him impatient for more. He slowed down, the older, wiser wolf remembering that these moments pass all too quickly.

A feel-sound moved through Neal's chest into Dyson. Neal pushed closer, crowding Dyson into the cold stone, which served to intensify the heat between them. Dyson flexed his hips slowly, and the sound moved into Neal's throat as Neal rubbed back against him. He smelled so good, Dyson's head swam. He withdrew from the kiss, equal parts reluctant and eager, to rub his face in Neal's neck, to mouth the skittering pulse there, to feel the sound against his tongue and also the gooseflesh, rising. 

"Holy fuck," Neal breathed, shuddering. 

Dyson paused. "Let's go inside." He wanted doors closed tightly so that Neal would _not_ be politely quiet like that. He waited, resisting the urge to herd. Neal pushed away, striding purposefully back to his bed. Once inside, Dyson latched the door, pulled the drapes, and followed. 

Despite his deliberate, measured movements, Dyson ached. His cock had been leaking a wet spot onto his briefs, and he had the rare, drum-like tattoo beating in his skull _fuck me, fuck me, fuck me_. Seeing Neal strip off his sweats without ceremony, revealing himself hard and darkened with urgency, intensified the need. Dyson hooked thumbs in his waistband and eased it over tender flesh before yanking the garment off. 

He stepped up and closed the space between them again, hearing both their sighs at the relief of contact. He spent a long minute with Neal's mouth, and then urged him up onto the bed, following closely. Neal's deft hand on his cock was a surprise that almost ended in climax. He caught Neal's wrist. "Easy, I'm edgy." The fingers moved more slowly after that, teasing. "Condoms?" he asked.

"Um, do they have to be special?" Neal lightly squeezed for emphasis.

Dyson laughed. "If you have them, I imagine they fit you."

"Oh." The look on Neal's face was marvelously surprised. He quickly slipped away.

Lying on the bed, waiting for Neal to return from the bathroom, Dyson breathed and calmed himself. Long ago, he learned to adapt his alpha nature to all kinds of dangers and pleasures. Another time, he would gladly fuck this man, but not untried—that would be someone else's responsibility and joy. He elbowed up and lit a candle on the bedside table.

He watched as Neal padded briskly through the dining area toward him, moving from shadow into the flickering light. Again, he glimpsed the sharpness, the faeness, the danger. Not a shape-shifter, or else the transformation would have happened long ago. If he were, Dyson thought, he'd be a fox, and the bigger, stronger predator knows that he underestimates the other at his own peril. At the moment, these facts were aphrodisiacs of the highest order. 

Standing by the bed, Neal laid a strip of condoms on the side table. He smiled. "What?"

"You're extraordinarily beautiful," Dyson said. "No, really," he continued at the shrug of rejection, "you're used to seeing the masks you wear. You know you're good looking, but it feels poisonous, a matter of luck, and you don't rely on luck." Dyson settled a hand on Neal's hip. "I see more."

Neal was silent for a long moment. "You obviously don't need flattery to get me into bed—Ah!" he gasped as Dyson's mouth engulfed the head of his cock. "Ohh."

A hand settled into Dyson's hair, rubbing his head and neck. Careful of his teeth in an overfilled mouth, Dyson nudged into the hand, and Neal stroked more firmly. Dyson played with shape and smoothness, thinking it had been too long since the last time getting off slowly with a guy. Breath rasping hard, Neal shifted his feet for better balance. "I'm getting all the upside here," Neal said, "Move back."

Dyson rolled from stomach to back, making room on the bed. Neal kissed his mouth, throat, chest, belly, without hesitation. It was his turn to be surprised when Neal boldly took him in, not at all like a first-time-guy. In between flashes of pleasure, he mused, "You've done this before… some parts of it."

Neal paused, perched on an elbow. "I've kissed been kissed by few men before—parts to play. I realized it's just kissing a person, some you like, some you don't. Given a couple of hand jobs. That's it." 

"You sure know your way around a blow job," Dyson chuckled.

"Being a quick study's a survival skill. But thanks." Neal touched his own lips briefly. "Actually, I like how you feel in my mouth." 

"I know what you mean," Dyson concurred. "And now you realize that we aren't so different. It's that shock of the first look that makes the other guy seem bigger."

"Except that my hand feels more full than usual," Neal said, low and soft. 

The image of Neal getting himself off burst through Dyson's brain, and he groaned as much from that as the movement of deft fingers. 

"You're so…" Neal's brow furrowed, "magnetic."

"Mm. A quality we share—you must have been a helluva con." Dyson ran a hand along Neal's hip, waist, ribs. "I'm not a no-talk-during-sex guy, but I'm very much in touch with the fact that if things had gone differently today, I would be fighting my way out of a very bad situation instead of being with you. I'm eager to feel even more _deeply_ grateful." He reached out to break a packet off the strip and proffered it.

Neal was ready in seconds. His hands came to rest on Dyson's thighs. 

Dyson scooped some lube off the condom and redistributed it. "I'm experienced, I know how to relax and when. So this time, you don't have to be all up in your head. Press extra hard at the beginning and slow down when you push through." The blood rushed past his ears and through his cock, anticipation growing. He lifted his feet and reached for Neal, guiding him. The sharp piercing gave way quickly and he groaned with relief as Neal filled him. Instinctively, he bared his throat and Neal nuzzled him, his breath fast and hot. 

"How is it possible this can feel good to you?" Neal panted. 

Dyson squirmed against him. "How can using the perfect soft-hard tool to rub my prostate against the root of my cock from the inside feel good?"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"I don't do it often, but there's no other way to scratch this particular itch. You'll see." 

"You'll show me?" 

Dyson rolled his head against the pillow in negation, but he smiled. "Pop your cherry with Burke after you _top_ him." He enjoyed the brief look of shock. "Word to the wise, you'll enjoy the surrender no matter what. But in that situation, he needs to know you can take care of yourself first. Don't make him responsible for fucking his CI."

"Thanks for the advice. But I'm with _you_ at the moment. Inside you." Neal ducked his head and kissed Dyson, boggling his mind with multiple slippery sensations of penetration. 

Dyson rolled his hips, eliciting a stifled yelp from Neal as inner muscles gripped. Neal thrust hard, and Dyson gasped at the joyful burst of lights across his field of vision. "That's it." Dyson rocked with him, slowly losing his ability to stay quiet.

"June's on the other side of the house," Neal murmured, punctuating with another thrust. 

"God, yes, more," Dyson said aloud, taking the hint. "It's been too long. Put your back into it." 

Neal did, managing to undulate so as not to neglect Dyson's cock, which was much appreciated since Dyson had a firm grip with one hand on Neal's ass and the other on a shoulder, the better to feel all the muscles working. He wished he could explain why protection wasn't necessary between them so that he could take Neal bare and feel him pour into him. 

Finally, Dyson simply had to roll them so that he could fine-tune the movements from atop. This had the definite advantage of freeing Neal's hands for better use. And it gave him a good view of Neal starting to lose his mind, breath hitching, shoulders digging into the sheets. He wanted it to go on for hours and knew that he'd have to settle for savoring the remaining seconds because he couldn't slow down. 

When the exclaiming, howling, and shuddering had played out, Dyson crouched with his knees splayed, head hanging, hands braced on Neal's chest. Neal's heart drummed hard and fast against Dyson's palms. In a few more moments, Neal would be soft enough to slide free, but Dyson clung to the time in between. It wasn't, couldn't be, exactly what women felt, but it gave him camaraderie with them to understand the sense of _taking in_ , the unique satisfaction.

Finally, he collapsed next to Neal, warm, boneless, sated. He whisked the condom off and left it on the bedside table, so that Neal's most intimate scent could mingle with their sweat and his own semen. It made him inexplicably happy. Neal was silent for a long time but Dyson knew he was awake. He let him be quiet with his thoughts. 

"I'm lying here, making complex calculations," Neal said, finally.

Dyson propped on an elbow to indicate focus. 

"That didn't make all the other sex I've had feel inadequate."

"Why would it?"

"It was fantastically awesome. I'm trying to figure out why. Wait, what I mean is, aside from the fact that you're a skilled lover—"

"—I know what you mean," Dyson chuckled. "Getting something you didn't know you needed doesn't make you not want the other stuff you need. Drinking water doesn't make you want air less."

"Oh. Right. That makes sense. But it's not that the mechanics are so different, at least not on my part tonight. And I've never really craved novelty."

"You've just rolled around in guy pheromones in a way you never did before. What we did was enhanced by brain chemistry. If your brain is structured to like it, bang! You might be tempted to think we have a mystical connection… it's really the deep animal connection. Compatibility." 

Neal traced Dyson's shoulder, down a channel along his arm to the back of his hand. "Yeah, you smell really good to me."

"Burke smells really good to you too. You get annoyed with him on the phone but less in person, right?"

"How… yeah, okay."

"And he's married, and doesn't rut around after other women. It isn't only because he wants to be loyal. He's found the brain chemistry with her that works. Only thing is, like you, and me, he needs both."

Neal's eyes locked with his and his smile was wry. "Not at all the jealous type, are you?"

"I am, but I've been practicing hard not to be for about three years now. It isn't an indication of disinterest. Not at all." He leaned in and savored Neal's mouth. After a long while, he pulled back. "Can we sleep? I'm exhausted." 

It was lovely, no other word for it, to snuggle close and fall into the abyss entwined. He really wasn't a lone wolf.  
*******

It could have been his imagination, but he was fairly sure that Burke's nostrils flared when he and Neal exited June's house together, fluidly synchronized. The chatting was easy enough among them, although Neal smelled a little guilty after a couple minutes of pretending in front of Burke.

Dyson enjoyed the ache of sitting and relaxed on the way to the airport, glad that he wouldn't have to actually deal with an airplane seat. He played with the scents of the two men, Burke's notes deeper and in some ways more subtle, human rather than fae. Like his voice. Or his hands, strong on the steering wheel. He was attractive, and it wasn't just Neal's unconscious excitement being passed to him. Dyson found himself getting a little hard. He smiled to himself and then accidentally caught Burke's eyes in the rearview mirror. Wary. Alert. He met them, careful to avoid a natural alpha challenge. 

At the curb, he shook Burke's hand, exchanged cards, smiled easily. The next part was tougher. He wanted to crush Neal to him and leave him with a kiss to remember, but that wouldn't do. Their hands clasped, perhaps a little longer than necessary, and they bumped chests, laughing, but even to Burke, it had to look like simple rapport.

He didn't look back. After the lushness of a night with Neal, it was suddenly daunting to contemplate going home to duty and an empty bed. Time, maybe, to think about moving on. A little credit with a Weaver couldn't hurt.  
*******


End file.
